


Read Between My Lines

by Ragazza_Guasto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bisexual John, Demisexual Sherlock, Denial, Denial of Feelings, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Humor, John Watson's Blog, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pining, Requited Love, Satisfying Confrontation of Feelings, Season/Series 03, Smut, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:02:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is back, the game is on, and John decides it's time to get back into the swing of writing up their cases again. There's just one problem. Apparently his 'romantic prose' has taken a pointed and quite obvious turn for the worse. Everyone seems to notice but Sherlock and John isn't sure why this bothers him, but it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Read Between My Lines

**Author's Note:**

> Warning, though this story references John's blog, I completely came up with my own timeline of dates and happenstances within the show. Mostly because the 'official John Watson Blog' is shit when it comes to accuracy. This story takes place after Episode One and before Episode Two, therefore John and Mary aren't yet married. Mary plays a very small part in this story and I've kept her character fairly neutral, since the boys didn't know yet that there was anything wrong with her past or her motivations. Not to say I don't think her character isn't just as ruthless, I just didn't really see the point of bringing it out much. This story is about Sherlock and John only. I found this fic to be very cathartic, since I'm still so frustrated with the lack of communication between those two idiots in Series Three. Hope you guys find it just as refreshing.  
> Also, unbeta'd and unbrit-picked, so mistakes are my own.

John watches from across the table as Mary frowns, not in displeasure but in slight confusion.

"What?" He asks, worried he's been unclear on some point, gotten something wrong.

She shifts in her chair slightly, looks up from the laptop and smiles. "It's a bit...well...it's a bit gay, isn't it?"

Mary's tone is teasing but he can see the real question underlining it. He also shifts in his seat, pretending it's an issue of turning fully towards her and not the frission of unease skating down his spine.

"What d'you mean, gay? It's a robbery gone wrong, what's gay about it?"

Her eyes dip back down to the blog post briefly. "Well, here you've described Sherlock's voice as 'melted honey over broken glass' and here you say he...what was it? 'Sailed over the counter top with the grace of a dancer turned mad with vicious intent.' John, it's...no! It's good," she reaches out and clasps his forearm in comfort, "it's just more of that romantic prose you know he hates."

When she smiles, with shared understanding of Sherlock's tastes, John has to stamp down his first instinct to lay claim.  _Yes, I am aware of his likes and dislikes, thank you._  He keeps shoving it down until he can give a wan smile in return. "Yeah, I suppose. But I wouldn't say it was gay-"

"Oh c'mon, you know I was teasing. I don't think it's got anything to do with that, I just thought, you know, you do go on about how annoying it is, people assuming, and well, this hardly helps, does it?"

"Look," John snaps in embarrassment, "if you think it's bad I won't post it. It was a stupid idea to begin with, Sherlock was against it from the start, I should have just left well enough alone."

Mary gets up from her chair and moves to sit in his lap. He takes her weight and tries not to frown when she goes into 'Mum Mode', with her stern frown and her 'take no attitude' voice.

"John Watson, you are an amazing writer. I wish you'd let me read the old blog right off, you know how I love it. I'm behind this decision a hundred and ten percent. You asked my opinion, I gave it to you. I'm sorry if I upset you but it was coming from a place of love. I thought you'd be more upset if the first wave of comments coming in asked if I was out of the picture now that you and Sherlock were an item."

"That's not-" He tries to snap but stops when she bursts out laughing.

"Christ, John, take a joke. What's the matter, hmm? I mean if you're really over it, what these people think, then it's not an issue, yeah? Leave it the way it is, it's fine, I promise. I'll stop teasing if it upsets you so." She rests her head against his neck and squeezes him round the shoulders.

"It’s the first case post in over two years," he mumbles after a beat, hand to her waist. "I just wanted it to be good, you know? If you think it's too...flourishing...I can still edit."

"It's fine," she whispers against his neck. "Post the damn story and then come to bed." She pecks him on the cheek and then gets up to settle for the night.

He gives her a smile as she turns to look at him through the kitchen doorway. Slowly, he turns the laptop back around. The blinking cursor at the bottom of the page mocks him, dares him to either erase the lot of it or post it and let the chips fall where they may. Instead he closes the top and walks away. The decision can wait until morning.

Mary grins around her tooth brush as he makes his way into the bedroom, assuming he's done the deed. He doesn't confirm or deny, just removes his clothes and finished his nightly ablutions by rote. He's fairly sure Mary would be up for it if he gave the slightest hint of agreement but something still isn't sitting right with him, so he simply rolls her onto her side and snuggles against her.

In the night, John dreams of Sherlock reading the blog and smiling.

 

~*~

 

Mary is already up out of bed when John awakens the next morning. Not that it's strange, she usually is, but he feels anxious in her absence. His house coat goes on quickly, the sash tied as he makes his way to the kitchen without even stopping at the loo for a piss.

Mary is nibbling on toast when he walks in. "Morning, love."

"Morning," he replies with a strained smile.

His laptop is open. He can see from the doorway the page is sitting on his blog.

"I uploaded it for you," she informs him casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Like one would say 'I've started the dishwasher' not 'I've ripped words from your tongue and given them to strangers without your permission.'

"You..." John has to swallow against the urge to say something he'll regret, something he’s often found happening more and more. Or the sudden urge to rip the plate of toast from her grasp and fling it into the sitting room. That would go badly.

"You don't mind, do you? If you're worried about spelling or something, don't. I double checked." She gives another smile around her bite of toast and John doesn't want to read the smugness behind it but he does.  _You're not angry at her,_  he tells himself,  _you're angry at yourself._  But even that old adage doesn't ring true. Because he  _is_  mad at her. He's mad she didn't ask, she just assumed. He's mad she's placed doubt and worry where once he was proud.

"No," he lies, "it's fine. I was being silly last night. You were right, I'm sure it's fine." His smile feels saccharine but if Mary notices she doesn't comment.

"Good. No comments yet but it's only been twenty minutes." She looks so proud of herself, as if she's done all the hard work. Did she have to chase down the shooter? No. Did she have to hold him down, get punched in the stomach while wrestling a gun from him? No. Did she have to sit down at the yard for hours while Sherlock argued over legalities with Lestrade and Donovan? No. Were they her words? No. Does he say any of this to her?

"No." He takes a slice of toast from her plate and bites into it. "There wouldn't be yet, would there?"

"Can't wait though. It's exciting, isn't it?"

"What?" He pours himself a cup of coffee, with a splash of cream, and leans against the counter.

"Being involved with the famous blog of John Watson." She ruins the near compliment by giggling.

He takes a sip of coffee and stares her down. "Sure you don't want to hold out for Jonathan Creek?"

"Hmm," she pretends to think. "Bit campy for my tastes. I've found you to be a nice mix of ridiculous and thoughtful."

"Well, that's something, isn't it?" He sets his cup down, places a kiss on top of her head and then walks away. A scalding hot shower is in order next.

Mary walks in as he's finishing up and, though he can't quite make her out through the curtain and the steam, he sees she's looking through the cabinet.

"What's on the schedule for today?" She asks cheerfully as she takes a multivitamin.

"Dunno," he answers. "Thought I might pop off to Baker Street, get the abuse out of the way first."

"What, you mean about the blog?" She laughs. "Yeah, he'll have a few choice words about it." Her mobile rings from the night stand and she runs to grab it, chatting away pleasantly while John towels off. She comes back with a smile and leans in to kiss his cheek. "Well, I'm off with Janine and Carol to do a bit of shopping. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

She slaps his arse on the way out. John stares at his hazy reflection in the mirror and wonders at himself.

_Why can't you just be happy with what you have?_

 

~*~

 

  
Baker Street has stopped feeling like a tomb since Sherlock's return. One would almost venture to say it begins to feel a bit like coming home again when he crosses the threshold. Which in turn makes John a bit ill when he reminds himself this is no longer his home; that he's chosen to make a new home, with Mary.

"John," Sherlock greets casually from his perch on his leather chair when John walks in. It doesn't occur to him to knock, another symptom of returning here in the thoroughs of nostalgia. But really… What could Sherlock possibly be getting into that John hasn't seen already?

"What brings you round?" Sherlock asks as John flops down in his chair seated across. He feels the familiar texture of the plaid upholstery and finally relaxes.

"That dreaded curse known as boredom. Mary's out with the girls, so I thought I'd pop in for a visit. What are you up to?"

He twists his wrist, a motion that says 'you wouldn't be interested.' "Polystyrene," he answers vaguely.

"Hmm," John hums, entertained by Sherlock's vast, unfathomable mind at the very least. "So been on the net today at all?"

"Depends. What is today?"

John grins in fondness and looks away. When he looks back he answers, "It's Monday the eighth....of March."

Sherlock nods in contemplation. "Been busy with experiments since last night."

"With the polystyrene?"

"That and others. I've got a viscosity experiment going at the moment that's coming along."

John knows what a viscosity experiment entails. He snaps, "What have you done to the tub now?" 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow in curiosity. "What do you care?"

It lands like a blow, the reminder that it's not his tub, not his responsibility to keep Sherlock in line here anymore. He smiles, a small thing, a concession that, no, it's none of his concern; just a knee jerk reaction, a form of habit.

"What were you saying about being online?" Sherlock asks after a moment.

John worries that maybe he should have just left well enough alone. It was an eventuality that Sherlock would see the blog entry, but did John want to stand witness while he did it? What if Mary was right? What if it were obvious how...

"John..." Sherlock snaps John out of his musings with a concerned tone, an uncharacteristically soft thing.

"No," he clears his throat of the hitch, "I was just wondering if you'd seen the new post. On my blog."

John is pleased to see Sherlock roll his eyes at this. It's more like him.

"I thought we'd discussed this. Didn't we agree it was a waste of time?"

John chuckles. "No. _You_ decided it was a waste of time and then you called Greg a sycophant for suggesting it."

"If the shoe fits..." He rises up at that and marches to the kitchen.

John watches him move throughout the room, moving bits of equipment around on the table. He's seen the maneuver enough times to see it for what it is, an excuse to remove himself from conversation. Next he'd move to his microscope and that would be the last he'd hear from the man for hours. John was desperate to avoid that. It was one thing when they were living together, a few hours respite could be just the thing sometimes, but now that he's living with Mary, and these visits are few and far between, every second feels stolen. John is constantly starved for contact.

So he gets up and follows.

"Sherlock." He receives no answer so he tries again. "Sherlock. You idiot, there isn't even a slide in the damn thing."

Sherlock looks up at him finally, clearly angry that John's called him out. "You'll notice that but not that you've still got shaving cream behind your left ear?" He snaps, a pathetic attempt to deflect.

John rubs behind his ear and smiles when his sleeve comes away white. "I've got you to notice things like that for me," he teases.

"No, you've got Mary to notice things like that," Sherlock throws back.

Another blow lands invisibly and John does his best not to flinch at it. It's not like it's untrue.

"She was gone by the time I shaved," John explains lamely. He might as well have slunk away, tail between his legs, so obvious must be his hurt. The focus on his dry, doctors hands hold John's attention while Sherlock sits there deducing him.

"Did you want me to read it?"

John looks up and almost asks 'What? My pathetic need for your attention?' But he means the blog.

"You don't have to. It's not like you don't know what happened, you were there. Just thought you'd like a chance to critique. If you were bored."

"I almost always am," he admits with a quirk of a smile. It does things to John's stomach that he's tried years to suppress. Without success. 

When Sherlock rises from the table and moves toward his bedroom, John has a brief, intense panic attack.  _He's going to know. You've really done a number this time with the 'flourishes'. Everyone sees it. You can do your best to ignore it but in the writing it's there. He's going to see and he'll just know._

He’s just sat down at the table when Sherlock exclaims from the hall, "My god, John.” 

John flinches. "What?" _Christ, has he finished it already?_

He comes in carrying the laptop. "The Petty Pugilist? Really?" 

The knot of worry loosens in John's stomach and he lets out a breath. "You don't like it? He did have a mean swing."

Sherlock merely gives him a look over top of his computer. He opens his mouth to comment on something else in the blog but before he can his mobile goes off. Sherlock sets the laptop down on the table and fishes the phone from his jacket.

"Holmes. Really?" He asks, intrigued. "Right. No, he's already here," he looks down at John, "yes. Which end? Yes, see you there." He hangs up and grins.

"Locked room, triple murder, or strange fetishist?" John teases. 

Sherlock tries to look stern but his lips are too busy twitching. "Neither. Man's body found in Hyde Park, his leg caught in a bear trap. Nobody heard anything."

"That's a new one."

"Yes," Sherlock practically growls in his excitement.

John follows him out the door, the laptop forgotten on the kitchen table. 

 

~*~

 

John comes back to the area where the body was hidden with the round of coffee he'd picked up from the cafe on the corner. He hands them out to Greg and Sally.

"Ta," Greg says absently as he watches Sherlock pace in front of the body. 

Sally gives him a nod and takes her's away to the panda.

John leans up against a tree with his cup and watches Sherlock as well, though what either man hopes to accomplish by standing around and watching someone else work he hasn't the faintest. It's just what they're used to with Sherlock. Waiting for scraps.

"Saw you posted about the robbery last week," Greg mentions casually as he sips his coffee.

John takes a large, scalding swig of his before answering.

"Yeah. Not as interesting as some of our old cases but I thought you were right about getting back in the swing of it." He glances at Sherlock to make sure he's out of hearing range before he asks, "What did you think?"

Greg glances over and then away. "It was good."

John waits a beat before asking, "What?"

"What? Nothing?"

"Not nothing. What is it?"

Greg has a look about him, like he wants to broach the subject but knows how it's going to be received. And John just knows, like he always does when this very subject is about to be raised, that Greg's about to agree with Mary about the post. He's had years of practice at having others curiosity aimed at him.

John sighs in resignation. "Was it really that bad?" 

"No, it's not bad, it's just... I don't know, it was...strangely poetic?"

Well, that was a nice way of putting it. Diplomatic at the very least.

John starts when his coffee cup is yanked from his hand. 

"What was strangely poetic?" Sherlock takes a swig from the paper cup, grimaces and then shoves it back into John's hand.

"Oi, I asked if you wanted some and you said no," John complains. 

"That was hours ago," he responds.

"It was twenty minutes ago," he mumbles back. He's not even  _a bit_  aware that he then places his lips to the same place Sherlock's had been seconds earlier.

Sherlock bounces on his toes in the chilly early March air, hands in his pockets. "What was strangely poetic?" He asks again.

Before John can divert the conversation, Greg answers. "John's new blog post. Didn't you think so?"

Sherlock glances over at John. "Haven't read it yet."

Greg makes a face, though John can't quite define it. "Huh, well, maybe you should. Could be, uh, enlightening." 

John stares out into the distance as if he's no longer a part of the universe, let alone the conversation. And to think, he used to like Greg.

"I don't see how. John misses nearly all of the important details. It's all 'the poor family' this and 'the victims legacy' that. Hardly a scientific fact to be found, even though I put in all the effort to solve the damn cases."

"Hey, twenty five year police veteran standing here," Greg announces. 

"Oh, yes, you must have really strained your finger pressing speed dial to reach me."

Greg blusters at Sherlock, working himself up to a real fit, but John can't be bothered to lend a soothing voice to the argument. He’s too busy still fretting over the blog post. When Sherlock sees it, as he inevitably will, John is now doubly sure he’ll glean a lot more from it than just romanticized drivel pertaining to the case. Perhaps he shouldn't have made reference to the way the wind would catch in Sherlock's hair when he ran...

"John," Sherlock snaps.

When John looks over, Sherlock is waiting expectantly, glancing at Greg like he was waiting on something specific.

Greg waves him off. "No, you don't. Don't look to him to bail you out, just go. If I need anything I'll call you."

"Don't bother, you'll only hurt yourself," Sherlock snarls petulantly. "C'mon John." He then flounces off.

John blinks and opens his mouth too apologize for the berk but from halfway to the road already Sherlock shouts his name again. 

"John," Greg calls out when he turns to follow. "It's not wrong, the way you see him. It’s just, sometimes I can't fathom  _what it is_  that you're seeing." 

John knows his face is conveying just what being called out has done to him when Greg looks ready to backtrack, so he does the only thing he can and simply walks away. 

It takes him a bit to catch up with Sherlock, the long-legged git, and when he does he receives a scowl.

"What? You really expected me to save you from yourself back there?"

Sherlock snorts. "Never bothered you before."

John ignores that. "So how was it done?"

Sherlock jams his hands into his pockets, his shoulders up around his ears. "I'm not a trained monkey you know."

"Let's get lunch and you can tell me all about it."

"Yeah, all right."

 

~*~

 

Even though Sherlock knew John was going to text Greg the whole thing, he tells John anyway over a shared plate of Kai Phat Khing.

"How do you know it was an accident?" John asks, chewing on a spring roll.

"Simple. He'd taken several painkillers beforehand, so we know it was planned ahead of time. What he didn't plan for was losing so much blood at the rate he did, thus ensuring he didn't have the strength to maneuver the release."

John leans forward in his chair and laughs. He shifts some more chicken over to Sherlock's plate. "What an idiot." Sherlock shrugs as if that were a given and takes the offering without comment. "Why didn't anyone hear him call for help?"

"No mystery there. It would have taken him eight minutes to bleed out, torn as he's managed to get himself. The shrubs acted as a sound dampener and he must have just had the unfortunate luck of maiming himself when no one was around to hear him cry out."

"I want to say 'unbelievable' but this isn't the weirdest thing we've come across," John says. 

"The Elephant," they say simultaneously and then tap their plastic cups in cheers. 

"Suppose he wanted to collect some sort of insurance check or something," John mumbles after the waitress checks on them and leaves again.

"Boring." Sherlock has managed to eat his portion of chicken, a quarter of John's, and even some of John's spring rolls. This knowledge still makes John inordinately happy, that he can get Sherlock to eat his fill. It's nice to be needed still, at least for something. 

He glances up to comment but Sherlock is glaring over John's shoulder. He turns to see and spots a pair of teenage girls, who upon being spotted glance away quickly.

"What?" He asks Sherlock when he turns back.

"Not sure yet. I think they've got a bet going on whether this is a date or not." He says it so casually John almost forgets to feel embarrassed.

He licks his lips nervously, thankful Sherlock isn't looking at him. "Fans I take it?"

"I assume," he absently replies. "They seem to be daring each other to come over here."

"You just keep glaring then, hopefully they take a hint. I'm going to get a take-away box." He gets up to go to the front counter. 

He really should have seen it coming, but he's still surprised when he hears a nervous cough behind him. 

"Jesus," he mumbles and reluctantly turns around. 

The girl flinches away and mumbles her apologies and John immediately feels terrible for being so brisk.  

"I'm sorry, come back. Really, sorry," he calls out to her. 

She hesitates but he does his best to convey his sincerity, even knowing he's going to regret letting her drill him about Sherlock. 

"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson, I just...I saw you and I wanted to say hi but if you're busy..." She shuffles nervously. 

Dr. Watson? Was she a former patient? Most fans didn't address him so formally. "I'm not busy." He uses the smile he utilizes for putting new patients at ease.

She smiles back, still nervous but more comfortable with herself in her welcome. "You probably don't remember me but I've never had a chance to say thank you for what you did for my mum and me and I just..." She toys with her bracelets and chews on her cheek. John takes the opportunity to puzzle out her story from his memory. A client, clearly, but he's having a hard time placing her. She's tall, taller than John, with dark skin and wide eyes. He'd place her age at around eighteen or nineteen, in sort of a punk phase, if her blue braids and nose ring are anything to go on. 

"You saved me when my step-dad kidnapped me from school," she goes on to say. "He hit Mr. Holmes over the head with a lamp and you bashed the hell out of him." She says this as if it were the most entertaining thing she'd ever seen. 

John grins as he finally remembers her. "Clever Clara Toure."

Her face transforms at that. "You do remember!"

"Course I do. You didn't even need Sherlock and me to save you. Smart as a tack, hiding your mobile like you did." She waves John off with a chuckle. "You were much shorter then. What the hell has your mum been feeding you?" He teases.

She snickers but shifts uncomfortably, probably been teased mercilessly by peers for growing so tall, so fast. Her case had been one of John and Sherlock's earliest ones, so that put her age at closer to sixteen or seventeen, as she'd been a gangly pre-teen then, complete with awkward braces and a mane of wild curls.

"How is your mum, by the way?" John asks her, inappropriately remembering that Sybille Toure looked a lot like Nichelle Nichols from Star Trek.

"She’s good, really good. Got remarried this year actually."

"Oh, yeah?" John waits for her feedback before commenting. The woman hadn't exactly picked a winner with the last one.

"No! Michael is great! That's his daughter there," she points to her friend, who waves when they look, "Bea. She's great too. Mum's gone back to school to be a nurse."

"Good. I'm glad to see you two settled and happy. Tell her to give me a call when she graduates, she's got a job at my practice for life if she wants." _You’re engaged, John. Jesus._

Clara looks to the floor and grins. "I'll tell her, thanks."

"Of course." 

She doesn't say anything for a few seconds. When she does look back up it's with a nervous pout and John waits for the other shoe to drop right on his head.

"I've followed the blog, you know, not religiously or anything," she says casually, "but, you know, off and on. I saw your post from this morning."

"Oh, yeah?" John asks, just as casual. "What did you think? Not as exciting as some of the older ones granted-"

"No! It's great!" She practically yells and then realizes her casual facade has cracked and reels it back in. "I mean I liked it a lot. I think you've gotten better since...since..."

"You really think so?" He saves for her.

"Yes! Yeah, for sure." 

 _Christ, let's just get it out of the way now,_  he thinks. "Some people seem to think it's too poetic." 

"Poetic? No, I don't think so... Maybe, um, the details were more  _vibrant_ , I guess. But I like it." She shrugs and looks back down at her boots as she paws at the floor with her toe. 

"You can ask if you want," he tells her dryly. "I won't be mad."

Her head comes up, her eyes open wide in shock. "No, I wasn't going to!" Followed by a grimace. "I mean, I don't know what you mean."

John laughs and looks away. Sherlock is casually glancing at his fingernails, which means until John looked over he was watching the conversation. Of course he was. 

"We're not," he tells her anyway. "I'm engaged."

"Oh, I know. Mary, right?"

"Yes. Mary Morstan."

Clara nods but John can tell she's still curious. "Were you...I mean... Before? I'm sorry, it's none of my business. It's stupid, forget I said anything."

John feels a familiar ache begin in the pit of his stomach. "It's fine, you're allowed to ask. No, we never were."

"Oh." She's trying to hide her disappointment. She glances over at her friend. "Yeah, I said you weren't. Bea was the one who...she's the one who thought, not me." She starts blinking rapidly and John thinks if she starts crying he's not going to have a clue what to do. "It's just that, I remember that night. You were so...angry and scared and you seemed so worried about Mr. Holmes that I thought..." She's wringing her hands now. "I thought you must be, and I had never seen that before and you were so nice to me, I never forgot how nice you were and then I found the blog and you were always saying how great he was, even when you were mad at him...how can you not...I don't understand-"

"Clara!" John takes the liberty of grasping her by the shoulders to steady her when she starts near panicking. He nods to her friend to say she's okay when the girl looks ready to step in. She hesitates but Clara waves her away.  "All right?"

"Yeah, sorry, I'm really sorry. I'm just-" She blinks away more tears and laughs. "I guess I was more emotionally invested in that than I thought." Her eyes keep shifting to her friend and John has a sinking feeling he knows exactly why she was so invested in believing he and Sherlock were together.  

"Clara," he hedges, uncomfortable being in the position so often a source of pain for him. "Are you and Bea?"

"No!" She recoils in horror, panic. 

 _Christ, is that what I look like?_  

"It's okay! Hey, it's okay, Clara. I won't say anything. We don't have to talk about it."

"She's my step-sister," she defends as if the idea were absurd. If John didn't have a keen understanding that falling in love with someone didn't always follow the rules of polite society, he might believe her defense. 

They fall into an awkward silence, neither knowing how exactly to move on from the embarrassing moment. He knows she’s wishing they’ll move on but he doesn't want to end on this note, he can't seem to push it aside again with another diplomatic platitude. John thinks about what it must have been like for her, to have believed in them so hard, to want to emulate what she probably thought was the perfect relationship, only to have the rug pulled out from underneath her. How awful it must be for her to have the added strain of an awkward family situation weighing on her hopes as well. At least he hadn't had that to contend with. John glances at Sherlock and hopes the man isn't reading the situation as it is, though he knows it's a futile wish. 

"Clara, listen to me." He waits until she looks up before continuing. "If you find yourself lucky enough to fall in love, don't _ever_ hesitate. Okay?" She starts to shake her head in denial but he interrupts. "Whatever reasons you think you have, trust me, they don't matter. Not when regret will follow you for the rest of your days. Do you understand? Don’t _ever_ wait."

Her face falls. "But..." She swallows nervously and whispers, "But she's my  _sister_." 

John smiles at her excuse, sees it for what it is, any attempt to distance herself from possible rejection. He plows through it. "Does she love you back?"

Clara gives a small shrug. "I don't know."

"Could she? Is there even the slightest chance?"

She glances over at Bea. The girl smiles back, trying to convey support for whatever it is that's got her friend so upset. "Yeah, maybe." She sounds more hopeful now. 

"Then don't hesitate." John can hear his voice breaking. His courage is starting to leave him, a sick feeling is welling up in his core and he feels lightheaded. "Please, for me, Clara, don't hesitate. Tell her how you feel, yeah?"

She nods. "But what about you? It's not too late-"

He stiffens up, takes a step back and knows he's effectively ended the conversation when she closes her mouth with a snap. 

"It was good to see you. Tell your mum I said hello." 

John blows toward the loo so fast Clara's braids swing as he goes by. She looks like she might follow but her friend calls out and she must have gone to her instead because John makes it to the toilet unmolested. 

He hits the stall and swiftly releases a torrent of ginger chicken, bits of spring roll, and Coke. Being face down in a Thai restaurant toilet bowl when he isn't drunk enough not to care is probably the low point of John's already shit day. He knows he's a right idiot, for more than the several reason's he can come up with off the top of his head, and there are  _several._   Foremost in his mind is practically admitting to a fan that he regrets never telling Sherlock...the thing he's trying desperately not to think about- has been trying desperately not to think about since Sherlock's return.  

John takes several quick breaths as panic starts to set in. 

 _You're no better than a sixteen year old girl_ , he chastises himself. And then immediately realizes it's a terrible thought. Sixteen year old girls were more apt, and certainly more excused, to feel anguish and self-hatred. At least they had the world telling them they were silly and ignorant and probably wrong about whatever their choices were. Nobody was forcing John to do or say anything- or  _not_  say, as the case may be- and he  _still_  made shit choices.  Hell, if anything, he's had several people quite adamantly telling him it was ludicrous, he and Sherlock not being together.  But it doesn't matter what other people think, it matters what Sherlock thinks. And he knows the score there. The whole reason for his continued denial was his continued place at Sherlock's side, in whatever capacity that Sherlock needed him. A doctor, a sounding board, a friend. But nothing more. John was okay with this, he was, he is. 

But...

“All right, I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes now and if I’m not mistaken this is not where they keep the takeaway boxes.”

John smiles against his forearm. Bless the bastard, he‘s letting John get away with his quite obvious freak out, even if he doesn’t know exactly what caused it.

“You get the take away then if you’re so impatient about it,” he replies.

“Too late now,” he drawls smugly. “I let Soo dump the plates.”

John growls, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, stands and then flushes the toilet. “I was going to finish those spring rolls.”

“You should have…“ Sherlock trails off as John exits the toilet and he gets a look at him.

If John didn’t know any better, he’d think Sherlock was upset.

“What?” He snaps, going on the defensive.

“You should have come back sooner,” he answers but it’s in a softer tone, as if he’s talking a gun out of John’s hand.

It just pisses John off even more. He breezes by without another word. Not washing his hands feels like a rebellion, though he’ll probably wash them when they get home- when they get back to Baker Street.

Assuming Sherlock already paid, John leaves the restaurant without looking at the other patrons. If Clara and Bea are still there John doesn’t register them. And with Clara’s blue hair that’s really saying something about John’s frame of mind.

Outside he stands on the kerb and attempts to flag down a cab. It’s not until a much longer arm reaches out that one stops.

“You know, sometimes it’s fucking annoying living in your shadow,” John growls.

Sherlock looks down and then away as he holds the door open for John. Regret immediately floods John as he takes in Sherlock’s kicked puppy look, how he’s stoically keeping his thoughts to himself. If Sherlock isn’t going to play the game, isn’t going to argue back, then John just ends up looking like the arsehole. Normally this would just provoke John into another wave of antagonism, but he finds the fight has completely gone out of him.

They don’t talk the entire ride back to Baker Street. It’s awkward, strained; the atmosphere is choking John with the words not being said. Sherlock pays for the cab as well and John leaves him to it, not caring a wit.

“John!” Mrs. Hudson greets him in the foyer, where she apparently lives when the boys aren’t in. “I’m so thrilled you’ve started writing again.”

“Liked those flourishes, did you?” He quips without stopping, straight up the stairs.

“Well yes, dear, but-“

John is already up the landing and in the flat so he doesn’t hear the rest.

Making tea is out of the question; he’ll only get sick again if he puts anything in his stomach. He decides to sit at the table anyway, just so he’s not pacing like a lunatic when Sherlock walks in.

When he does, it’s with a casual grace, calculated to the inch, conveying clearly that he’s not bothered in the least by the previous silence. He holds his mobile in one hand, texting as he shrugs his coat off and tosses it to the sofa.

“Lestrade?” John asks. If Sherlock is willing to overlook the tiff then so is John.

“Hmm?” He looks up. “No. Mary.”

John’s fingers clench, so he hides them under the table. If Sherlock were paying attention, he would have seen it.

“Mary? What did she need?” He casually pulls his mobile to check it for missed calls or texts. There are none.

Sherlock flops down in his chair without looking up from his phone. “She’s finally decided on the invitations.”

“Yeah?” John forces out. “The tigers or the foxes?”

“Neither. Magpies apparently.”

“All right. She’s the boss.”

“Yes.” He snorts. “She thinks they’re swallows,” he mumbles and continues to text her.

John thinks he might fling himself from the sitting room window. Or better yet from his old bedroom. It’s higher and it would be a fitting end, he feels; his inner most thoughts come from that place, the corner of Baker Street he’d eked out for himself.  If he weren’t having such a surreal, out of body experience he might have gathered the strength to go through with it, but he finds his body is glued to the chair at the kitchen table, and he’s looking down at himself as he makes inane conversation with his best friend about the details of his wedding.

No.

He’s watching himself propitiate with the person he loves most in the world about his marriage to another.

_...huh..._

With less thought than he would to make tea, John gets up, grabs the laptop, and walks the short distance to the sitting room.

Sherlock looks up when John holds it out to him.

“Take it,” John commands.

“Why?”

“Because I asked you to.”

“All right.”

When he does take it from his hands, John sits in his chair slowly, eyes locked with the man seated adjacent as he tries to puzzle out John’s motives. John wishes him all the luck in the world, because he’s not sure himself. All he knows is he’s tired of waiting, tired of putting off the inevitable. If Sherlock figures it out now, he supposes, so be it.

“You…want me to read the blog?” Sherlock hesitates, working it out.

John nods. And he waits.

It’s by no means a comfortable wait, but neither is it a walk to the gallows. He’s still in that cocoon of stasis, where consequence means little to nothing. He’s just so bloody tired of straddling this line between one path and the other. So he’ll float here, above it all, until Sherlock decides for him, as always. He’ll trust in that. They’ll either travel together or John will leave Sherlock to travel his own path while he continues on with Mary. 

Meanwhile, he watches Sherlock. It’s getting dark outside, the street lights have come on, changing the ambiance of the room. John vaguely thinks about starting a fire. He feels it might add a touch of the dramatic should the night turn in his favour, but more likely it would become a force of destruction should it turn against him. He tells himself he doesn’t, or shouldn’t, care either way.

Sherlock lets out a sound between a huff and a snort and finally looks up. John locks eyes and tries his hand at his own deductions, but Sherlock isn’t giving him a lot to work with.

“What did you think?” He asks. A block of wood could have asked the same question with more feeling behind it.

“Seems like more of the same,” he answers with a shrug.  “Bit fanciful, but then, when aren’t you?”

John knows in that moment that the true delusion had been telling himself he’d ever had a choice.

He gets up slowly; the computer is pulled from Sherlock’s lap with care. He then pulls his arm back and launches it at the far wall, where it smashes fantastically over the sofa to rain down bits of plastic and metal to the floor.

John turns to look down at Sherlock. He’s looking up, wide-eyed, like he’s never seen John before.

“I am in love with you. You. _Stupid! Bastard!_ ”

He gets nothing back from this enormous confession. Sherlock is a statue, or might as well be.

A laugh emerges, not out of humour but out of fatalistic irony. Hope was such a caustic enemy. It had kept him alive immediately after Sherlock’s death, and if he’s honest, it had always been there in the back of his mind; that impossible wish, for Sherlock not to be dead. But every day that had passed with no sign of his friend, hope had twisted him, reshaped him. By the time Sherlock had returned, he’d returned to a different man.

What did it say about John that he loves him still, despite all of that?

It says that hope of Sherlock’s survival hadn’t been the only hope lingering.

John leans down into Sherlock’s space, hands braced on either side of his arms on the chair.

“I’m going to say my peace and then I’ll go. You can delete it or keep it. It’s up to you.” He takes a breath and waits for any sign he's being heard. Sherlock won’t even look him in the eye, he's staring at a point just over John’s shoulder. It doesn’t matter, he needs to say it out loud either way.

“By the time we sat down at Angelo’s that first night, I wanted you so badly I risked offending you irreparably, just on the chance you’d accept a half-arsed proposal. If you had, I would have fucked you six ways from Sunday in the loo.” Sherlock’s fingers clench down on the arm of the chair but John isn’t sure what it means, as Sherlock gives no other clue to his frame of mind, so he continues. “By the time I shot Jefferson Hope, you’d gained a loyal companion for life. It was okay if you didn’t…or couldn’t…reciprocate the way I’d originally wanted. I told myself it was okay. I’d take you any way I could have you. It was enough. I lived in that lie every single day. I made it work. Because I needed to be near you, to be needed by you, to orbit you like those silly little planets and moons you know nothing about.

“And then you left.” He closes his eyes and sees it as vividly as he has for the last two years, since the day it happened, and his heart clenches all over again. He knows tears were now rimming his eyes but, hell, Sherlock isn’t looking anyway.

“You left and all I knew was pain and regret. For never telling you exactly how much you meant to me. For calling you a machine in my anger. Can you comprehend how terrifying it is to think yourself in love with someone incapable of feeling? I know better, I knew better then, but believing you incapable then was easier than believing the problem lay with me. If you couldn’t feel, you were at fault, not some inadequacy in me.” John receives a blink at that, but still silence. “But it still hurt, the futility. After, I told myself if you’d known the truth, if I had just said something before Moriarty got to you, maybe you wouldn’t have… I don’t know. It’s pointless to speculate now. You were gone and I was gone with you. I died with you…do you understand that? You took away my reason to live.

“Mary…she put me together again. Not whole, not like before, but enough. She kept me alive when nothing else could, kept me going until you could return and I’ll always be grateful to her for that. Now she’s between us, or at least I’ve been telling myself that she was keeping me from you. But that’s not true, is it?”

As John stares Sherlock down, he finally registers the low grade tremors that wrack Sherlock’s frame. He’s either trying to vibrate through the chair and escape through the floor boards or he’s actually hearing everything John’s saying and is processing it on some level.

“Is it, Sherlock?” He snaps, looking for a response. “She’s not between us because there is no ‘us’, there never will be an ‘us’. I realized today I’ve been holding a torch for three and a half years, hoping that one day you’ll just wake up and say to yourself, ‘Oh, I think I’ll fall in love with John today.’ How sick is that? You’re helping my fiancée plan our _wedding._ I’m sat in that chair still staring at your lips, like I’ve been all this time, while you go over the guest list and the menus and the fucking bridesmaids gowns. And it’s _killing me!”_

John’s breathing heavy, he can’t help it; he’s trying not to break down.

“I’m trying to be strong here, Sherlock. I told myself it was enough to get it off my chest…but you have to give me something. Don’t make me leave without knowing.”

Sherlock continues to stare off into the kitchen, he’s blinking so fast now it’s like watching a time lapse video, but still he says nothing.

“All right.” John moves to pull away.

Sherlock’s right hand has John’s forearm in a vice grip before he can take a single step. John’s eyes are glued to the hand holding him still, the white knuckled grip, and then they’re traveling up his arm, the ridged strength of the limb, his tightened shoulder, of course his eyes travel over Sherlock’s neck, before they finally settle on those aquamarine eyes he knows so well. They’re a little bit greener just now.

“John,” Sherlock tries and fails to say, his voice seems to stick in his throat. A lot of swallowing happens, and he seems to get frustrated. His head snaps back and forth suddenly.

“What? What is it, Sherlock? Please.”

“You… You’re not supposed to do this. It’s supposed to stay _buried._ ”

John flinches. Then, furious, he pulls his arm away and spits, “You would have me live like that forever?”

“We’re _both_ supposed to live like that!” Sherlock finally snaps. John is too shocked to react so Sherlock continues. “We pine and we live in agony but. _We. Don’t. Talk. About. It!_ Do you think this has been any easier for me? Do you _really_? Picking out flowers and sodding serviettes with your future _wife_? I thought we had our chance to confess already but we didn’t, did we? If we can’t say it with our last breaths why would I say it just because you’re about to get married? Were you any more attainable for me with Sarah or Vanessa or Lindsay or Jeanette? No! Because we can’t do this! Just because you want something doesn’t make it okay!”

“But if you-“

“No! It doesn’t matter what we want! Don’t you get that? It will never work! If it were simple and easy we would have had it by now.”

“If it were simple and easy, we wouldn’t want it,” John points out, nearly breathless with anticipation.

Sherlock snarls in anger over John’s obtuseness. “You cannot do this now. You’re getting married in three months. You made a promise to Mary. Are you _really_ going to look her in the eye and tell her you’ve had a change of heart and she can sod off? After everything she’s done for you?” He scoffs in disbelief. “No, John, you want a one off. You want to get it out of the way, assuage the curiosity, and then when the guilt sets in you’ll go crawling back to her. To the safety of _normalcy_.”

John’s initial reaction is anger and hurt; that Sherlock thinks so little of him. But then he sees the real motivation behind Sherlock’s words. He’s terrified. This has been Sherlock’s excuse these past few months, his reason for never broaching the subject as well. Fear of rejection.

John knows better.

So he does the unthinkable. He very slowly crawls into Sherlock’s lap and settles himself with his knees on either side of those slim hips. He gently lays his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, nose tucked into the crook of his neck. He can smell at least three different scents- cologne, after shave lotion and shampoo- from this spot. Mmm. And a hint of sweat as well.

Sherlock is shaking again. Or still, maybe he never stopped.

“What are you doing, John?”

“I want to be close to you when I tell you this, so you can read whatever it is that you need to in order to believe my sincerity.” He pulls back so Sherlock can see his face. “I’m leaving Mary and I’m going to move back into Baker Street. It will hurt. Yes. It will be unfair. Yes. But not as hurtful as being away from you. Not as unfair as leading her on when I love you more.”

Sherlock blinks at him again, saying nothing. John’s watches for some sign that he’s been heard.

“What’s going on in there?” He asks, absently. He doesn’t expect a reply.

“I’m screaming into a pillow.”

John chuckles. “Really? Why?”

“Not sure.”

“I mean, it’s your own head, but you could just scream out loud if you wanted.”

“I suppose. Feels symbolic though.”

John’s getting a kick out of this. Sherlock is clearly still not fully out of his own head yet, talking absently, still staring off into the kitchen.

“Sure, you probably never got to have that as a teenager.”

“Have what?”

“That moment where the girl you like, or bloke I suppose, finally asked you out. You know, you hang up the phone and then roll around on your bed having a fit.”

“No, can’t say I did.”

“You were above all that 90210 bollocks.”

“Certainly.”

John is grinning like a fiend.

“Could you finish up, please?” He asks congenially.

“I suppose. Why?”

He leans in to whisper directly into Sherlock’s ear, “Because I’d like to snog you like it’s 1992 and I’d rather you were here for it.”

Sherlock’s head turns toward John’s slowly, dragging day old stubble together, drawing forth long forgotten sensations. By the time there’s a hair’s breadth between them, John is starting to panic a bit. He’s never wanted something so badly, for so long, and had it so close. What if it was all hype? In his head? Wanting something and getting it were two different-

_Oh._

_OH!_

The wait is finally over, it seems. Sherlock makes the first move before John can finish his thoughts and then new ones emerge in their place.

_Virgin? Where did he learn this? How…?_

“Mmm,” John melts against Sherlock despite his questions, “fuck.”

Sherlock’s arms go up and around him, and John finds the confidence to weave his fingers into inky curls, while lips curve and teeth nibble. He thinks he might explode, to finally feel the sweet points of Sherlock’s lip with his tongue. Christ, what has he been doing with his time? He could have been doing this.

The angle changes and suddenly Sherlock is going deeper, practically licking the back of John’s mouth, and it’s so good. It is _so_ _good_. He tugs those curls in his fist and growls, which gets him a hiss and then a surge forward of Sherlock’s hips. The fleeting impression of hard cock is blazed into John’s arse and then it retreats. Well he can’t have that.

He tugs harder, and this time he sinks down, chasing that ridged outline again. As soon as he finds it Sherlock whinges into John’s mouth and John feels himself flung backward. Sherlock cradles him as best he can but John still lands hard on the floor beneath them. It’s only a momentary shock, over taken by the sensation of a hundred and eighty pounds writhing on top of him like a snake.  He’s got Sherlock trapped between his legs but no amount of pressure can keep him still; not like John would want that if he could.

John’s pretty sure Sherlock has kicked over the side table next to his chair. Doesn‘t matter.

He cries out when Sherlock pulls away suddenly but it’s only temporary, he’s frantically yanking his suit jacket off and John can’t complain about that. Once it’s off, John reaches up and pulls Sherlock back down, attacking that ridiculously gorgeous neck. He’s woken up in wet pants from dreams about it, he’ll not let the opportunity pass to feel it against his tongue and between his teeth now.

Sherlock is making abortive thrusts of his hips against John’s and hard puffs of breath hit John directly in the ear. He bunches Sherlock’s shirt in his fists at his back and pulls him closer, if possible. Sherlock seems to be trying to pull John’s jumper off but they’re pressed together so tightly it’s a slow process; neither seem inclined to move far enough apart again to facilitate the maneuver.  

“John,” Sherlock whinges, pleading.

John kisses his way back up to Sherlock’s lips. “What?” He asks between their lips meeting. He feels it then, there’s a wetness splashing down, mixing between their lips.

John pulls back enough to see but Sherlock turns his head away, buries it into John’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he tugs but Sherlock refuses to budge. “Sherlock,” he tries again, softer, suddenly frightened that he’s done something wrong, something irreparable.

Sherlock just shakes his head, the essence of a child refusing to go to bed, petulant as always. He even gives a small, wet sniff. John thinks he might either melt or scream.

“Please, what’s wrong? Tell me,” he begs, running his hands up and down Sherlock’s back.

He receives an intelligible reply, muffled by his thick jumper.

“What was that?”

Sherlock tilts his head and whispers against his neck, “I’m sorry I ruined it. I just want…I can’t believe you…it’s-“ He huffs in frustration and John chuckles, which earns him a grunt.

“I’m not laughing at you, I swear. I’m laughing because even though you’re completely unable to explain, I still know exactly what you mean.”

He pulls away a bit more at that, enough that John can see his eyes again. “You do?” He asks softly.

“Of course. I’ve wanted you for years, remember? If you think I’m not completely overwhelmed too, you’re mad.”

“Oh.” He blinks down, either in confusion or in embarrassment, John’s not sure.

Either way he misses seeing Sherlock’s beautiful, tear filled eyes on him, so he puts a finger under the man’s chin and lifts his head until their eyes meet again.

“And you didn’t ruin anything.”

“I did. I’m a master of my emotions but when it matters the most they run amok and-“

John grasps Sherlock by the hips and grinds up against him, hard.

“How does that feel?” He growls. “Feel like a ruined moment to you?”

Sherlock grunts so hard it’s like he’s had the air punched out of him. His eyes go wide and in the next instance John finds he’s being attacked by a tornado with arms. Grasping arms that apparently want him naked, sooner rather than later.

“Your obsession with layers has never been more asinine,” Sherlock snaps as he yanks John’s jumper over his head and finds the button down underneath.

John knows he must look ridiculous, that his hair is sticking up from static and he’s grinning like a loon, but he’s just so undeniably happy none of that matters. They fight over who’s unbuttoning whose shirt, which seems to take forever in John’s opinion but actually only probably takes a less than a minute.

“Oh, for f-“ Sherlock growls when he sees John’s vest underneath the button down and John throws his head back and laughs at the man’s righteous indignation, but still rolls to help remove both shirts.

Sherlock’s is hanging open, the dark red contrasting beautifully against him, and revealing seen but never touched, not ever in the way he’d have liked, pale tracks of skin from throat to hips.

They’re staring at each other, taking in the sights with renewed appreciation. John is wondering if he should have started cycling to work like he’d been thinking about doing lately, but it must not matter because Sherlock falls upon him again and resumes snogging him breathless. Now, with the shirts out of the way, they seem to slither more snakelike than before. But it’s not enough.

John wedges his hand between them and palms the granite length pressed against him. Sherlock sucks in a breath and groans, pressing against John’s hand willingly.

“Yes,” he hisses into John’s mouth and then sets to work undoing belts and buttons and zips.

“Oh, fuck,” John cries out at the first feel of skin on skin.  “Christ.” His back arches, tailbone digging painfully into the floor, but he doesn’t care.

“Oh, John. You’re so beautiful. I knew you would be but I never imagined… I never thought…” Sherlock pants, alternating between staring at their cocks as they slide against each other and back up to kiss him hard.

John wants to say something equally as poetic, or at the very least, tease Sherlock for being so, but he can’t find the words to speak. Everything has boiled down to the hot feel of slick skin and places rubbed just right and hot breath on his lips. He checks another milestone off the list when he slides his hands down Sherlock’s flanks and grabs onto his arse for dear life. Such a bounty, he’s the luckiest man on Earth in that moment.

Sherlock is panting in earnest now. “I’m sorry, John, I wanted to do everything with you but I can’t. I can’t.”

John doesn’t misunderstand, he can feel the urgency in Sherlock’s movements. It’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen, Sherlock flushed and sweating and desperate. He wants it to be so good that Sherlock has this moment inked indelibly on the back of his eyelids for the rest of his days. So he snatches Sherlock’s hand from where it lay bracing himself on the floor- his weight comes down harder on John’s chest but he takes it willingly.

“What else would you want, Sherlock?” He asks and then sucks two long, musicians’ fingers into his mouth.

Sherlock’s eyes go wide and then slam shut on a shocked cry. “Fuck!” He snarls and then John feels hot, liquid pulse against him, onto him, mixed between their bellies as they continue to writhe.

John, not far behind, continues to suck on Sherlock’s fingers until he’s gasping for air and his vision whites out.

He comes to with Sherlock’s fingers still in his mouth, lazily petting his tongue, as if to say ‘Good job.’ He takes Sherlock’s wrist gently and pulls them away, kisses the tips of them reverently before settling their hands together on his chest.

“I can’t believe you thought I could just do a one off with you. And you think _I’m_ the idiot. Christ.”

Sherlock grunts, blowing a few curls into John’s face. “Working hypothesis. Since adjusted in light of new evidence,” he mumbles.

“Damn right.” John squeezes his hand. “I’m not near done with you. Blow jobs in the shower. I want you to bend me in half in this chair and fuck me until I can’t see straight. Then I’m going to put you over that bloody kitchen table and pound into you till you scream. We’ll wait until Mrs. Hudson is out and then fuck in the entryway, on the stairs maybe…”

Sherlock growls low, his cock giving a half-hearted twitch on John’s abdomen, before he rises up and kisses John hard.  They snog for another indefinite amount of time before John pulls away to breathe.

“Sound like a plan, then?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums in agreement. “Enough that I wish it truly were 1992, if only for the shorter refractory period.”

“Too right,” John agrees as he shifts on the floor. “My shoulder is killing me. I’m too old for this.”

Sherlock smiles down at him, softly, something he’s never seen before, and John’s heart swells. If he doubted Sherlock’s reciprocation before, he doesn’t now.

“Shall we move this to the bedroom, then? Give your old bones a rest?” He asks with a crinkle at both eyes.

John shoves him off with a laugh. “Don’t know about how much rest we’ll get, but yeah, let’s move this to a more comfortable venue.”

He helps Sherlock up and despite the teasing, they’re both popping bones as they stand up fully. Unable to keep from touching each other for the short walk, Sherlock and John hold hands down the hall. Sherlock stops off at the loo to wet a flannel and wipe them down, which John is grateful for, and then they make it to the bedroom to strip and fall into bed.

“Nothing in here is going to stab, burn or bite me, right?” John questions, only after tugging the blanket over their heads.

“ _I_ might,” he admits, shuffling closer into John and nibbling gently at his shoulder.

John huffs a laugh and pulls him in closer. “Your toes are cold,” he remarks quietly.

“I know. Never had anyone to warm them before.”

He ponders this. Sherlock doesn’t sound terribly upset about it so it must not be an issue, but John wonders why, or perhaps more accurately, why him now? What makes him so special? He wants to ask but it would sound like fishing and he’s not so desperate for confirmation.

“Because I never cared to before. Until you. Yes, you are special, but don’t let it go to your head.”

John can’t help but laugh at that. “Almost forgot who I was cuddling with. Thanks for the reminder.”

“This isn’t cuddling,” Sherlock informs him regally.

John squeezes the leg between his thighs and runs his thumb over the ridges of Sherlock’s ribs. “Oh, it isn’t?”

“No. It’s strategic warmth consolidation.” He proves his point by snuggling closer to John’s heat.

John holds onto his serious face by sheer force of will. “Hmm. Sounds reasonable. But what about in a few weeks, when spring hits and you don’t need me anymore? Gonna toss me out on my ear?”

“Of course not. You’ll need my feet to keep you cool during the summer months. Be serious, John. One of us has to be thinking of the future.”

“Oh, I am.”

Sherlock waits a beat before looking up. There’s a question lingering between them that hasn’t been fully addressed yet but it can wait. He pulls Sherlock’s head back down to his shoulder and runs his fingers through his hair, feeling the curls slide through like silk.

“She’s not going to give you up without a fight,” Sherlock whispers, clutching John’s middle like Mary is going to burst in any moment and pull John away.

“We’ll figure it out, together,” he whispers back against Sherlock’s temple. “But never doubt that here is where I chose to be. With you, always with you.”

“Okay,” he replies with a nod. “That’s…good. That’s very good." He pauses and then informs John, "You owe me a laptop.”

"Piss off, you have six more."

"Seven, but that's not the point."

"Fine, but you owe me about nine new jumpers, probably a hundred mugs, and an indefinite amount of socks."

Sherlock doesn't deign to answer that and John snorts. 

It gets quiet, both men in their own heads, but still very much together. John worries very little about Mary and the future, which he knows is wrong and he should be wracked with guilt, but here, in this moment with Sherlock, he can’t be arsed to care. He supposes Sherlock is worrying enough for both of them but John will just have to prove his sincerity with time and great, sweaty bouts of love making. It will be a slow process but he’s willing to put in the hours. A snort escapes at this thought.

It seems to rouse Sherlock from his own musing, when he looks up and asks, “Do you really put that much thought into what my hair is doing while we’re running after criminals?”

 _Busted_ , John thinks with a smirk.

“Yeah, unfortunately. It’s been worse though. Anytime you’ve climbed a fence in front of me in the summer it’s like my brain goes off line and has to reboot.” When a tiny line appears between Sherlock’s brows, John elaborates, “No coat on. You’re bum is just _right there_.”

He seems to get a kick out of this for a moment but then a frown appears. “Unacceptable, John. What if you get hurt? Distractions can be deadly.”

John is grinning ear to ear. “Stop having a magnificent arse and I’ll stop staring.”

“Oh, do be serious! This isn’t something you can just-“

He doesn’t get to finish, though he does try, as John smashes their lips together. It’s sloppy, what with Sherlock trying to continue to scold him and John laughing, but eventually they work it out.

After a beat, John mutters, “I would try to fatten you up but I know for a fact a packet of Hob Nobs goes directly to your arse and no where else. Would make the situation worse probably.”

Sherlock is trying to frown but it’s not working, his lips ticking in amusement. Then he brightens and he side eyes John in contemplation.

“What?” John groans warily.

“I might have a radical solution.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Though you might not agree. It deviates from your original plan somewhat.”

John is baffled but goes along with it. That’s their dynamic completely, isn’t it? “Lay it on me then.”

“Building muscle mass by ingesting large quantities of protein,” he explains and then disappears under the blanket.

John flails. “Oh shit!”  

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not gonna lie, I wrote this story simply because I wanted John to throw that laptop and scream at Sherlock for once. Somebody needed to say something. Ugh, idiots! Anywho, hope you guys enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. Feedback is essential for a growing writer. Almost as essential as protein to a growing consulting detective...  
> If anybody wants to chat, come find me on Tumblr at [artisanbloodbank](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank).


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